


Learning

by pastelfalcon



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelfalcon/pseuds/pastelfalcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha says she's not ticklish, but it turns out Natasha can be wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning

When the subject first comes up, they’re sitting on the couch, Natasha’s legs stretched out across the cushions and her bare feet perched squarely in Sam’s lap, Sam obligingly holding his book a few inches above her occasionally wiggling toes. It’s too big a temptation for any rambunctious boyfriend to ignore, so he shuffles his book into one hand and drops the other, preparing to skitter his fingers along her left sole.

“I’m not ticklish,” Natasha tells him blandly without looking up from her ipad.

“Everybody’s ticklish somewhere,” Sam protests, frowning.

Nat fixes him with an even look. “That’s a risk no spy can warrant,” she says calmly.

Sam considers chasing her around the house and getting his ass kicked while trying to prove to her that’s ridiculous, but he’s gotten wise to the difference between her dry deadpan humor and her curt statements of awkward truth, and this feels like the latter. Which makes him uncomfortable to think about, because how exactly do shady child spy training facilities strip your ability to feel ticklish?

He doesn’t bring it up again.

But the subject brings  _itself_  up again, weeks later, when he’s standing behind Natasha in the shower, her head tilted back beneath the constant rush of piping hot water. Sam’s a washcloth kinda guy – loofas and sponges perturb him for reasons he’s never understood – so he’s sliding a folded one across Natasha’s skin, trailing dribbles of bubbles on her shoulders and the nape of her neck.

“I love it when you smell like me,” Sam purrs, because for all of the hair care products and makeup Natasha has stored in his bathroom, she usually just uses his soap instead of buying something of her own, and he loves its rich scent where it clings to her skin for hours after.

“There’s all kinds of ways to get that result,” Nat murmurs back, leaning back against his body, her wet skin slick against his own.

“Is there now,” croons Sam with a grin, dick stirring with growing interest. He moves the washcloth up, slipping in behind her ear, fingertips rubbing gently behind the fabric to build up cleansing foam.

Nat goes rigid suddenly, her breath catching, and before Sam can stop short in alarm, a choked giggle bursts free from her open mouth and she’s abruptly trying to squirm away from him. “Stop that,” she says in breathless annoyance, lifting a hand to swat at him, but it’s too late.

Sam crushes her against the tiled wall with his body, putting a foot up on the edge of the tub to fence her into the corner of the shower, mindful of the curtain. He laughs even louder than she does as he chases out her desperate giggles first with the soapy washcloth and then with his fingers, warmth flooding his chest as she struggles but doesn’t actually try to escape.

The water washes away the bubbles so he huddles in close, trying his tongue instead – and Natasha outrightly shrieks, clawing at the shower curtain and threatening him in panted Russian he only barely understands. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Sam tells her smugly, following his licking up with a soft bite, feeling her sag in his arms in surrender, “Ticklish as hell.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Natasha says faintly, turning within the bracket of his embrace, her eyes finding his with the usual dose of intensity that comes with her gaze. “I didn’t know.”

Sam’s smile softens. “Well now you do,” he says, bumping their noses together as he kisses her. She gets a hand on the back of his head, palm drawing him down to kiss at her neck when she gets a leg up around his waist.

“If you ever do it again, I’ll make sure you won’t sleep for a week,” Natasha tells him lightly, moaning softly when he gets his mouth on her breast, and Sam doesn’t laugh, because he’s a wise to the difference between a Black Widow joke and a Natasha Romanoff promise. 


End file.
